The Way of All Flesh

Chapter Eleven

Helenia dragged Naomi out of the crowded marketplace. As soon as she could register the cold, tugging hand on her arm, she yanked it away. It was Sylvester who took the initiative to guide the group away from the scene. If they had stayed gawking at the stage, it would have been unwanted attention on all of them.

It took Naomi until the chatter of the crowd died down enough around her for her thoughts to return fully from the mindless shock that had filled her.

She had seen death before. More times than she would've liked.

But never in her home village had death been a spectacle that garnered a crowd. It was a private and horrible whisper, not the thunder of an audience.

Public executions weren't rare in Cantien's larger cities, that was a well known fact, but to an outsider there was nothing more horrifying than so many people standing around waiting for a stranger to be killed. Killed for something the crowd could never be sure was true.

That little girl...

Naomi couldn't get the face out of her mind, the frozen expression of acceptance contorted with fear that laid permanently on the girl's head as it sat alone on that wooden stage. And the succubus with her glassy eyes.

Her stomach felt weak.

The group had moved farther into the residential area of the city, a street filled with mostly old houses and dull lanterns hanging from street posts. It was far quieter than the main road of the city had been, and around them windows were growing dark as families settled in for the night, which had snuck up on the group.

There were no guards on the street and barely a pedestrian wandering near them. But still a soft sense of dread couldn't escape Naomi's mind. They were criminals, this was obvious. What she had done in Sallon was a crime, the kind of magicks she had used was extremely illegal in Cantien. It wasn't on purpose, of course it wasn't, she hadn't even known she could spellcast at all. And yet, she knew the guards wouldn't listen. The price for a foreigner living in Cantien was to, for all intents and purposes, act as much like a native as physically possible. And, although Naomi looked as Cantien as her mixed heritage could grant her, they would know she had eastern ancestry. It was in the curves of her cheeks, the tint of her skin, the tones of her hair. She felt so foolish, so ungrateful, to curse the family legacy her grandmother had so often referred to as a gift.

The east, she had told Naomi, was more beautiful than Cantien could ever dream to be. She had promised to take her there, many years ago, to show Naomi where her family had come from.

And in the dim, lantern lit street, Naomi knew it was that family history that could end with her head on a cool, stone block. The audience would cheer for her, the magician would bow. They wouldn't even know her name.

As if for a moment they shared a collective mind, the group all stopped in tandem.

Naomi turned to them, eyeing their faces with odd shapes of shadow covering each like broken bits of glass from the distant street lights. They all seemed paler, more lifeless than usual, except for Sylvester who's expression stayed locked on his usual unenthused look. She thought about the city guards who had dismantled the attraction and wondered solemnly how many shows like it the knight had witnessed. In a city like Varla, so pristine and proper, how much filth did they have to expunge?

"We can't stay here," Naomi addressed the group before her.

Without a word, they all seemed to agree.

"Where do we go?" Sylvester asked her, ignoring what appeared to be a unanimous decision around him. "There are inns outside the main gate, but you'll find guards there as well. The cities too guarder, and too close to The King's Land to spend the night anywhere without one eye open,"